Six Degrees of Requiem
by Pereybere
Summary: Six stories detailing the relationship of Mulder and Scully from 'all things' to 'Requiem'. MSR!
1. All Roads, all things

**The Six Degrees of Requiem**

**All roads, all things**

_**If requested these chapters might contain adult material. Please do not read if you are not of the requisite age. Thank you. **_

**_The characters mentioned herein do not belong to me, they belong to 20th Century Fox, Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and their many affiliates. No infringement is intended. (Chris Carter has a penchant for law suits and I don't want to become part of one. Thanks.)_**

_**Note to the guys over at Bones – I'm coming back! This is an X-Files story and has nothing to do with the fantastic Brennan and Booth – but fear not, there'll be plenty of bedroom action for them, too!**_

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At just after two the rain started.

It was the thunder that woke her, rumbling through the sky. She was startled at first, not only because it had been a nice afternoon earlier, with no signs of an impending storm, but also because she was disorientated, not quite sure where she was, or why she was sleeping while sitting upright.

When the initial confusion disappeared, she became aware of the open window, teasing the storm into the apartment, scented like spring. She was not at home, yet she felt as though she were, and there's a small amount of comfort in the scent of him, permeating from the afghan. Running her fingers over the dark colours of the fabric she wondered if he sometimes slept with the blanket, or if he'd continued to retreat to his bedroom since acquiring a bed.

Pushing the prickly blanket aside, she stood, pulling his arm chair across the floor, careful not to make any sound, and left it as close to the open window as the furniture in the room would allow. Then, reaching across his cluttered desk she pushed the glass panel as far as it would go, coaxing more of the still, moist air into his living room.

The leather creaked beneath her light weight when she sat, snagging the blanket with her hand, draping it across her knees. Outside, the thunder rumbled again, making her smile. She had loved storms, especially thunderous ones, since she was a child. Her mother said it was God's way of cleansing – since then, she'd always thought the world was clean, after a storm.

A new start. A fresh beginning.

It felt fitting, in a strange sort of way. Earlier, she'd finally been able to relinquish the demons that had privately haunted her since medical school. When she'd taken the plunge and admitted the secrets of her past, her partner, who she thought would harbour some kind of quiet disgust, embraced the truth with open arms and accepted that she was young, naïve and attracted, as the Smoking Man had once said, to power men.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she thought of how, after all their years together, she had predicted his reaction so wrong. Instead of wondering how she could have so willing destroyed someone else marriage, he had merely shrugged and put it down to her vulnerable age.

His acceptance endeared her, and encouraged her to move on. A few months earlier, he'd been freed of the one thing had held him firmly in his past; Samantha. Now, she too was freed of the one piece of her past that had always refused to let go.

"Penny for them?" she lifted her head, catching just the silhouette of him in the bedroom doorway, the walls beyond splashed blue from the muted television. Narrowing her eyes, hoping to determine his state of wakefulness, she turned in the chair, swinging her legs over the arm. "Daniel?" he guessed, pushing himself off the doorframe. She shrugged.

"Just musing over the past ten years of my life. And then some." The minutes ticked by, becoming hours. It wasn't such a great big leap between hours and years, she decided. Looking back, it was as if everything went by in a blur. "You're forty next year," she said, meeting his gaze when he came close enough to be lit by slanting beam of the street lamp outside his open window.

"Jeez," he hissed as though she'd spoken something forbidden, "don't remind me." Standing at the front of her, sandwiched between the desk and the chair, her eye level with his thighs, he sighed. "Thinking about becoming forty is something I've been avoiding." Lifting her eyes from the plaid pyjamas he wore, she raked her eyes over the contours of his face, the lines of his jaw, the darkened, world-weary depths of his eyes, still illuminated by the merest glimmer of the outside light. He looked like a black and white portrait – half of his face lit, half shaded in dark.

"You're not old," she soothed, "well, compared to _me_, yes…" his laughter silenced her and she let the sound wash over her, sweeping away the sad troubles that had bombarded her for the past few days. She'd been alone, while he'd been in England. But then, she supposed, fate wanted it that way.

"You're catching up, Scully," he replied, folding his arms, crossing his legs at the ankles, staring down at her. "What are you? Thirty eight?" She cleared her throat.

"You know well that I'm only thirty five. Nice try, though. If it soothes your ego…" Mulder chuckled, reaching out, touching her hair. The slightest gesture made her tremble and she pulled an unsteady breath into her lungs, meeting his brooding gaze with the same trepidation that she had so many times before – for he had the ability to look through her, into her soul, and stir her senses unlike anyone else ever had before.

"Getting old isn't so bad," he said at last.

"I resent that statement. I'm not getting old." His fingertips dropped to her chin, stroking along the edge of her jaw, his skin calloused from work.

"We're all getting old, Scully," Mulder replied, his voice a whisper. "It's whether we're happy getting old, or not." Scully clutched the blanket with tight fists, wondering over his words.

"No one is happy about getting old," she decided, and a rumble overhead kept him silent until the clashing dispersed completely.

"But we can be happy with everything else, right?" It sounded so simple, when he said it. As if sadness and happiness was a switch. If only she could trip all the switches of unhappiness in her life, and make everything alright. "I'm not unhappy," Mulder added, dropping his hand, folding his arms again. "For the first time in perhaps… my living memory… I can say I'm not unhappy."

"But are you _happy_?" Scully pressed, leaning back just enough to see his lips purse in reflection. "I didn't think so," she added, when he didn't reply. "Men like you just _aren't_ happy. It's part of your nature to be…"

"You're wrong," he said, pushing back on the desk, sitting atop what she supposed was a half finished file. "I am happy. As happy as I _can_ be. We're all as happy as we can be, aren't we? Everyone wants something more. The Hindus discourage it, you know," she frowned.

"Happiness?"

"No, wanting more. They believe that you'll be forever reincarnated, never getting to Heaven unless you learn to appreciate what you have. Karma. 'He who desires desirable things and broods upon them will be born again'." Scully blinked.

"A lesson in religion? Just what I need at half two in the morning." He smiled, the pearly whites of his teeth shimmering. "I also don't want to imagine that I face persecution in death just because I wished for more money in life." She sounded huffy, and he laughed.

"Don't worry," he said as a stroke of lightening flashed through the sky, illuminating the room in a blast of brilliant white. "I'll put a good word in with God. Since I'm older and I'll be dying first and all that…" Turning her gaze to his fish tank, luminous and blue in the darkness, she thought of how unpredictable life was, really. If people died in numerical order, he'd be gone before her. But, a cancer that lived beneath the surface of her body, in remission and always ready to attack, there was no way to be sure she wouldn't be the person putting in a good word with God. "Christ," Mulder whispered, slipping off the desk, "I'm sorry, Scully… I never thought…" She waved her hand, silencing his pleading apology.

"It's fine," she whispered, "if we didn't laugh about death, we'd cry, right?" He nodded, hands clasped between his legs, his eyes watching her as the memories of her illness settled between them like a blanket of doom. The rain lashed against the glass, just barely missing the window sill. A breeze teased her skin, and she sighed. "Happiness is a fickle thing, isn't it?" she decided. "Here one moment and gone the next." Mulder straightened.

"We're a fucked up pair, really, aren't we?" he said.

"Yes," Scully agreed, "but a pair, none the less."

"The most fucked up pair in the bureau," he added and they both nodded together, silent whilst they contemplated this point. "Yet, as fucked up as you are, Scully, I wouldn't trust anyone more." She smirked, watching the UFO at the bottom of his fish-tank as it dropped, rose, dropped and rose again.

"Back at you," she said at last. "You've never betrayed me."

"I never will," he told her, "because you _and_ your friendship mean too much. Even if you wouldn't come check out crop circles in England." In the muted light, she saw him push out his lower lip.

"If you keep wasting money," Scully said, "they'll shut us down. We're due another financial audit, soon." He shrugged, unconcerned with the threat of impending auditor-wrath. It was the same every year, anyway. Once a year, each department and their staff went under financial review, searching for ways to cut unnecessary cost. The X-Files department and its staff of two would be summoned shortly. "It'll take more than some supersonic kids or zombies to convince them to let us work." Mulder blinked, the mention of the zombies automatically reminding him of their New Year's kiss.

"Even if they do shut us down, it's only a matter of time before someone gets abducted by aliens-"

"Or claims to," she chimed in.

"And then we'll be back in business. Every year I panic that we'll be kicked out of the FBI and every year, it's a big waste of time." He stretched, his bones popping, followed by a satisfied groan. "This year, I'm taking a leaf out of the Buddhist book. Tranquillity, Scully." Her earlier experience in the Buddhist temple came screaming back, and she sighed.

"It was the Hindu book a moment ago," she reminded him, "what next?" He rolled his shoulders.

"Variety is the spice of life, Scully. Do you want some tea?" She shook her head, and outside the storm seemed to have settled – aside from the rain and blustery wind, the thunder had subsided and the living room was ominously quiet. "Coffee? Water? Juice?" Chuckling, Scully stood, stretching too.

"Good night, Mulder," she said.

"You're _leaving_?" he sounded surprised and maybe even a little disappointed. She shrugged, folding the blanket into a neat half and then a quarter, holding the bundle in her arms.

"It's late," she said, "and I'm tired. I should go home… go to bed." Mulder nodded, as if musing.

"Or you could stay…?"

He could have said so many things in response to that statement. 'Alright, see you tomorrow, Scully' or even one of his harmless sexual innuendos. But he didn't. He asked her to stay – and it was the closest thing to a physical relationship that they'd ever got, because he wouldn't ask her to sleep on the sofa, so the implication was perfectly clear. No innuendo this time.

"I could…" she replied, dropping the blanket to the chair. The only sound for a moment was the wind, the rain and the trickling bubbles in his fish tank.

"Only if you want to," Mulder hurried to add, pushing himself away from the desk. "I'll… I'm… just going to the bathroom." His way of permitting her a moment's privacy to gather her thoughts.

When his bedroom eased shut, she inhaled deeply, the scent of the passing storm filling her lungs, fresh and clean. A new beginning, she reminded herself. Goodbye to Daniel and her past guilt. Goodbye to the naïve woman she was. Nowadays, she was contented with who she was and who Mulder was. So, he'd asked her to stay. He was inviting her to be just a woman.

She was just a woman and he was just a man.

In their late thirties, seeking something more than the professional maelstrom that had sucked them in, kept them bound for the past decade – not all of which was together, but still, a decade in total. It was time to let go, she supposed. There was no need to panic, as Mulder had explained.

Padding, bare foot, she pushed the chair back to its original place, smoothing her hands over her skirt before trailing her slightly trembling fingers through her hair, pressing against her scalp and wondering at how each moment had brought her to the exact spot she stood, hesitating by his bedroom door, wondering if it was enough to be just a woman.

Hearing the toilet flush, she straightened her spine and pushed the door open. The television was off now, and the glow of his bedside lamp cast long dark shadows across the room, slanting towards her. Hearing him turn on the faucet, she quickly removed her pantyhose, tossing them into the waste paper bin at the bottom of his bed.

Willing her heart to be still was futile, for standing in Mulder's bed room, with the intention of sharing his _bed_ was the most paramount event to have happened in her personal life in years. She had imagined how this inevitable moment might happen but, when she was on the brink, it was impossible to fathom how it had happened at all.

The bathroom door creaked open and he stepped out, his hair standing in unruly tufts, a sure sign that he stood had been nervously raking his finger through his hair. It was as though there were virginal adolescents, preparing to take the plunge into adulthood.

"You stayed," he whispered as if awed by it. Scully smiled tightly.

"Yeah…" she said, shifting at the bottom of his bed, turning her eyes to the ivory walls, the blank television screen, the branch that banged against the glass pane outside, anything, except looking at him. "I stayed…" her voice dropped, barely audible.

He heard it, though. "I'm glad. Do you want a t-shirt?" Without waiting on a response, he pulled an old cotton shirt from his drawer, pushing the garment into her hands. She took a step towards the bathroom door, seeking the privacy sanctuary offered to her by the four walls – yet, after the first initial step, she paused, turning to face him.

"Thank you," she said, draping the t-shirt over the edge of the bed, her fists tightening at the bottom of her sweater. She hesitated, her heart pounding inside her throat and she was certain the sound of her raucous heartbeat was audible, especially when he stood so close, she could feel the heat of his body radiate towards her in pulsating waves.

With arms that felt like spaghetti, she pulled the sweater over her head, the still air teasing her bared skin, making her hair stand on end, prickled with anticipation. Before her, his eyes struggled to remain on her face, drawn downward by the teasing glimpse of her breasts, hidden from his ravenous gaze by the wispy lace bra she wore.

"Scully…" he whispered and she supposed he was going to say something else. He didn't however, rendered speechless by the voluntary state of nakedness she was in.

Stepping forward, eradicating the small distance between their bodies, she touched him. A tentative touch that was stiff and hardly erotic. Yet it was more than she'd ever given him – speaking volumes, telling a story of greedy desire.

"I was meant to be here," she said, the words raspy and breathless. "All roads, Mulder, all things…"

His arm snaked around her waist, touching the silken skin that was exposed to him. "Yes," he agreed, sinking his fingers into her hair, his thumb grazing her jaw and he watched as her lips parted in eager response. She looked flawlessly beautiful, her cheeks flushed in the muted lamp light. He admired her bravery in removing her clothes before him, encouraging this moment between them – for accepting his subtle request for her to stay. She'd embraced his haphazard proposal with the sort of grace he'd come to love about her. No dramatics. She wasn't melodramatic in any form. And it was for this reason that their bodies, joined at the hips, felt so right.

Her hands danced across his arms, over his shoulders and down his back, as if mapping the contours of his body. He closed his eyes against her ministrations, willing himself to remember every touch she offered him. His photographic memory, he decided, would be a gift, not a curse, in this instance.

Their first kiss as would be lovers was hesitant at first, a whispering touch that teased and made her eye lashes flutter against her cheeks as she yielded her body to him, fighting the urge to ravish him.

"Are you sure about this, Scully?" he asked her, his hands pausing over the clasp of her bra. Her legs felt unsteady, his solid length the only thing holding her straight.

"More than anything," she replied with a soft nod, tilting her head and pressing her mouth to him.

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TBC – does anyone want 'the scene'? Let me know. This story will be a post-ep for every episode from 'all things' to 'requiem' detailing the change in their relationship until Mulder's disappearance (weep).


	2. The Addiction

**Six Degrees of Requiem**

**The Addiction**

**Notes: **Well, thanks to my Bones friends who have so kindly sent reviews. You guys are the absolute best! I am so pleased at the support, emails included. Thanks again.

Plus, what comments I have got, seem to encourage the scene. Here it is, with some more, too!

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. After almost ten years of wishing, I'm losing hope that they ever will be. Hehe.

**Spoilers:** all things, Brand X, Hollywood, A.D.

**Adult Material within, discretion advised **

_This story is only rated 'M', however, even M rated fics can be too much for tender eyes. Please be warned. _

…………………………………………

She was a woman, indeed and sometimes, usually on Sundays when there was nothing on the television except old movies, and she'd slip into the oldest and most comfortable pair of pyjamas she owned, eat ice cream and imagine herself as the love-struck heroine of the fifties, wrapped in a passionate embrace.

Women did those things, when they weren't struggling to maintain a professional façade in order to climb the ladder of power. She was no different, and, in recent years, she'd come to learn that reality fell far short of the fictional kisses. But now, it was delicate and delicious – she barely recognised the sound of her own murmured voice as she whispered her approval as his tongue, dexterous from years of sunflower seed manoeuvring, slipped between her teeth and explored the hot crevices of her mouth.

Her spine arched, brushing their hips together like magnets, drawn by invisible, powerful force. She snaked her arms around his shoulders, winding her fingers into his hair, realising that in this case, her fantasies fell far short, because he felt leaner than her mind had predicted, his skin smooth and warm. Her hands curled in his hair, tight, grasping fists. After so many years of wondering she was satisfied that he _was_ the perfect specimen of masculinity.

Stiffening her tongue, she stroked along his lips, tasting something that she couldn't distinguish – and what she would forever catalogue in her mind as 'just Mulder'. Uniquely him, she was already addicted to the fleeting taste she experienced. Worse than cocaine, it left her greedy for more. Tilting her head, she urged him closer, their mouths pressed together with bruising force. She supposed her lips would hurt in the morning, but it hardly mattered. Like all true addicts, all that she was concerned with was getting her next gratifying fix.

Massaging his tongue with her own, Scully released his hair, drawing circles on his on his aching scalp, although he didn't complain about the pain she had inflicted upon him. Scully traced her fingertips across his spine, still teasingly covered by the t-shirt he wore. She decided to even the scales of their nudity, tugging at the worn fabric with fingers that were curled like claws.

Taking her initiative he broke their kiss long enough to rid himself of the cumbersome garment, before sealing their mouths together again, breathless and ravenous. She took the opportunity to map the lines of his body, as a sculptress might when creating a masterpiece. He was a masterpiece, she thought, rippling muscles that were tight beneath her exploration, yet teased and aroused enough to flex, his flat, dark nipples hardened, much the same way as they were when he showered in tepid water. She remembered, from too many decontamination showers, just how his body reacted – he had sensitive skin and she intended to find as many ways as she could to arouse it.

Recalling with striking clarity how she'd caught a glimpse of his arousal during their last quarantine. The image of him, like an Adonis, would be forever ingrained in her memory. Perhaps to other women, he wasn't such a specimen of perfection. She knew that he was popular among the secretaries, but no one, she guessed, would have held his body in such high esteem. After seven years of admiring every line, every muscle, every ridge, she knew his body almost as well as her own.

Stroking his sides, she smothered his soft moans with her mouth, pleased that finally, after to-ing and fro-ing, they'd made their way out of the gloom of hesitation, and the taste of their bravery was intoxicating. She felt liberated, with his flesh moulding itself to the touches of her palms.

Flicking her earlobe with his tongue, she shuddered, fumbling with the tie that held his pyjamas tight. Her wrist brushed his arousal and anticipation raged through her veins, like pulses of electricity, she could barely contain her excitement and catching a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror, her eyes clearly conveyed this. Her pupils, dilated in the soft light, glittered with arousal, and her lips, naturally red, were plump and coloured similar to rubies, shimmering the same way, too. The sight of herself, flustered and excited, aroused her more, and she stroked him through his pyjamas.

His fingers curled around her wrist with a vice-like grip. "Don't," he growled, pulling her hand away. "It's been a long damn time, Scully," he warned her, "and right now, I don't have much resolve left." She stepped back, popping the button of her skirt and pulling the zipper downward with trembling fingers, aware that with each creak of the zip, his eyes widened a little more and her heart rate most certainly doubled each time she met his lingering gaze.

Her skirt dropped to her ankles, pooling at her feet, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, kept firm from regular swimming exercises and crunches, the smooth skin of her thighs and her legs, slim and shapely – complimenting her tiny frame. The contrast of their bodies was vast, yet somehow fitting. He looked lost, mesmerised by her and she realised then that it wasn't just she who had spent hours idly fantasising. The attraction had always been mutual. At least, for a long time it had.

She was so unlike Dana Scully the Federal Agent, now. She was a woman entirely, dressed only in her underwear, her hands passing over her thighs shyly as he examined the curves of her in much the same way she had done moments earlier. She wondered if the reality of her was better than his fantasies, or if his penchant for pornography had filled his head with unrealistic ideals.

"You're perfect," he whispered, taking her hands in his, drawing invisible circles on her skin. The two words put her mind at rest, wiping away any lingering doubts she had about what kind of woman she was. He looked enchanted and his expression filled her with confidence.

"Thank you," she replied, meaning it completely. "Should we…?" she asked, her voice trailing off with unspoken suggestion. He blinked, no doubt stunned that she, his partner, was standing in front of him, proposing with such eloquence that they 'get down to business'.

"What's the hurry?" he asked, and she opened her mouth to reply that her raging desire was the hurry, when the branches outside his window clacked nosily against the glass, making them both jump. Heads spinning, the watched it scrape against the frame for a long, silent moment, their hearts beating with almost audible force. "Scully?" Mulder said, shattering her reverie and drawing her gaze back to him. "As fucked up as I am, I'd be worse if it weren't for you. You…" she nodded, reaching out to stroke the bronzed skin of his forearm.

"Keep you honest? Yes, I know," she said, her tone filled with an odd kind of mirth.

"Honest, sane, happy… all those things…" She thought of their past and realised that their relationship was cemented as if by unspoken agreement. "This… it's just icing on an already wonderful cake." Their relationship, she recalled, was one that had been handled as if it were fragile china – he'd been hesitant to accept her equally hesitant request to father her baby, simply because he'd been afraid that their working partnership and friendship would be shattered as a result of such personal interaction. But that was over a year ago, now, and a lot changed during those precious seconds, minutes and hours. Somehow, they'd awoken to realise love and sex would never work, unless it were together. A complete partnership in _everything_.

"It is pretty wonderful," she agreed, no longer self conscious about standing before him so exposed. How long had it been since she'd had sex? Too long, she decided, and as a woman, she had unquenched desires that ravaged beneath her cool exterior. She wasn't beyond self-gratification and, during the bleakest, most depraved times in her life, she had resorted to it. As a young woman, back in medical school and the academy, she wasn't short of dates, or sex, if she wanted it. But since Mulder…

Since Mulder everything else became history and she didn't want anyone else.

His fingertips brushed her jaw line, stroking along the creamy skin there, over the cheeks that were flushed the colour of spring roses – and not from embarrassment now, but brazen want. "I'd like to see you, Mulder," she whispered, her raspy request hanging with such respect in the air between them, vague, yet painfully clear at the same time. He sucked a breath into his lungs, pulling on the drawstring of his pyjamas, loosening the tie and urging her gaze downward to the line of dusty dark hair that snaked from his belly-button, disappearing beneath the line of plaid.

Hooking his thumbs inside, he dropped them, kicking the pyjama bottoms aside, his eyes never leaving hers. It was she who broke their lingering gaze, watching as his penis stiffened harder in response to her hot stare. Her lips curled, her finger twitched as she wondered how good it would feel when he slipped inside her, filling her body with his great width.

"Well?" he asked, his tone filled with laughter. "Do I pass muster?" Her gaze flickered, faltering on his lips, which pouted with a suppressed smile.

"Visually, yes," she said, "but I want to know what this old man's body is capable of, physically." He stepped closer, slipping his arms around her waist, passing his fingertips over her spine, counting the ridges of her vertebrae with each stroke. Her nipples tightened, her lips parting as she prepared herself for the taste of him – a taste she was already craving.

"Enough of the old man stuff," he warned, touching his lips to her nose, coaxing a sigh from her lungs. Unclipping her bra, he freed her of the garment, testing the weight of her flesh in his palms. Scully, seeking support, reached behind and held tight to the bottom of the bed, thrusting her body nearer to his exploring touch. Inside her pelvis, her flesh burned, desperate for release.

Reaching between her thighs, he stroked the soft inner flesh. She sighed, hooking her legs behind his thighs, dropping her weight to the mattress. He looked down at her, her breasts shadowed and enticing in the lamp light. Dropping to his knees, he brushed his cheek along her thigh, scratching the silken skin with his stubble, watching as she winced, her teeth clenched and her fingers insinuating themselves in his hair, again.

Pressing his lips to the creased skin behind her knee, he tasted the hidden spot with his tongue and she whimpered his name like a plea, the sound lingering on her lips and she drawled the word. He looked up at her, delirious with want.

Passing his palm across her flat belly, he cupped her breast, the pointed nubbin of her nipple pressing against his work calloused skin. Circling the puckered flesh with his thumb, Mulder wondered if he'd ever been on the brink of such immaculate euphoria before. He was certain beyond a doubt that he had not.

"Please…" she whispered when her legs had begun to tremble. "Please come inside me, Mulder… please…" Standing, positioning himself at her entrance, he watched how her lips parted when he slipped inside her body. Her muscles were tighter than he could ever have imagined, and they felt like liquid molten around him.

It took only a few moments of fierce strokes before her walls began to ripple around him, her hips jerking as she murmured his name over and over again, thrusting, until he was buried as far inside her as he could be. When she came, he followed. She cried out, her voice drowning the sound of the wind, rattling against the windows.

Falling at her side, slipping from her body, he pressed his cheek to the duvet, breathless and spent. "I can't ever give you up, Scully," he said, dropping his arm over her body, as if claiming her.

"I know," she replied, stroking his arm, "you don't have do."

"In this job, we can't ever say that." She let the words wash over her, never realising just how accurate his statement was, or just how much they stood to lose.

…………………………………………………..

A few weeks later, she almost lost him, and the reality of what they were doing became all too clear. As satisfying and fulfilling as the frequent sex was, looking at him through the glass, she had to admit that sex was just a small part of a bigger package. He wasn't just her lover, no strings attached.

Having pumped nicotine into his body, effectively killing the tobacco beetle in the process, they'd poisoned him and his heart had almost stopped, twice. But it was the lesser of two evils – the nicotine _might_ have killed him, as opposed to the beetle undoubtedly doing so.

"Hey," he whispered when he saw her, his voice still hoarse. "I hear you want to make an addict out of me." She took his hand, the feel of him, still alive, washed all the tension out of her body. "The doc reckons I'm already a forty a day smoker, and I'm not even finished my treatment." Scully looked at her feet.

"It was the only way, Mulder… you'd have died…" his fingers tightened around hers, pulling her eyes from her shoes to meet his, twinkling with his usual good humour.

"I know," he rasped, "I trust you." The door breezed open and Skinner, who had been feeling increasingly guilty, stood coyly between his room and the corridor. "Come in," Mulder said, spluttering and coughing from the effort of too much talk. His lungs, still weak, were barely strong enough to maintain breathing let alone talk.

"How are you feeling?" their boss asked, hovering at the bottom of his bed. Mulder shrugged, lifting his eyes skyward. "I can't help but feel personally responsible for…" Scully shook her head, releasing Mulder's hand.

"You can't blame yourself," she said, and her partner nodded. "The most important thing is he's okay. Or he will be. And the experiments are going to stop. No more genetic alternations." Skinner half shrugged.

"I think it's best if you take some time off work," he said, "and recuperate." The objection on Mulder's tongue was never spoken, for Scully hurried to agree, detailing that his lungs needed to strengthen before being exposed to a dusty atmosphere. "For now, I think you should rest," Skinner added, "I'll take you back to the motel, Scully." She hadn't slept in what felt like forever. Her clothes permeated the scent that was unique to hospitals and she thought nothing would feel as nice as a hot shower and a change of clothes.

"I'll come back later," she told him, stroking the back of her hand across his forehead, bending to press a feathery kiss to his cheek. "The doctor knows where we reach me if…" she didn't dare finish her sentence, for her greatest fear was his lungs collapsing or the bugs returning. "Will you…" be okay? She wondered what she wanted to say.

"I'll be fine," he replied, as if reading her mind, "just rest." She wasn't sure if he meant her or himself.

"Okay, see you soon…" Following Skinner through the corridors of the hospital to the parking lot, she saw the questions in his eyes, behind his glasses. He'd witnessed a certain degree of intimacy between them – not that of lovers, exactly, but far beyond mere professional concern.

"When?" he asked, clipping his seatbelt in place. She followed suit, folding her hands atop her lap, turning her eyes to the rain-soaked tarmac outside the car window. When, indeed. How many times had they had sex since that night, in his apartment? Ten? Fifteen? Each time the boundaries faded a little more.

"About three weeks ago," she said, a blush tingeing her cheeks, "but it has _no _effect on our professional work, whatsoever, sir," Scully hurried to add. Skinner reversed the car, silent and slightly intimidating – he was still their superior after all.

"Be careful, Scully," he said and with those three words, he signalled the end of his inquiry. He didn't want to know any more.

"That's it?" she asked, surprised. Skinner shrugged.

"It doesn't concern me, agent," he said. "Just… be careful. You've been through a lot, and I wouldn't want one of those bastards to use this new piece of information to grind you down." Scully mulled this over in her mind, wondering who the shadow government would take the information to – and what effect such a revelation would have on The X-Files.

"Do you think they'd shut us down?" she asked.

"I think they'd try," Skinner replied. "But I trust you'll be discreet." She nodded in the affirmative. "Good. I have to head back to DC tonight, but when Mulder gets better, will you see he gets this?" he pulled an envelope from his pocket, with Agents Mulder and Scully written on the front.

"What is it?" Scully asked.

"The Lazarus Bowl is finished," Skinner said, "and you're both invited to the premiere." So much had happened in the past eighteen months that she had almost forgotten about Wayne Federman and his movie. Almost. If his eccentricity wasn't ingrained in her brain for all eternity – along with their stay in LA. "I trust you'll both be in attendance." Skinner said and her silence was filled only by the _swish _of the window-wipers.

"I'll… try…" Scully said, slipping her thumb nail into the envelope, slicing the paper before removing the eloquent invite. "I wish I could say convincing him will be easy…" Skinner glanced sideways at her, a smirk toying at his usually impassive expression.

"When is anything ever easy with Fox Mulder?" he asked and she turned her head towards the window, smiling to herself.

"Never sir," she said, "never."

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Anyone interested in what I think happened after Hollywood, A.D.? This chapter also has an MA version, if anyone is interested, send me a wee email and I'd be happy to forward it on. Thanks!


	3. Les Valses de LA

**Six Degrees of Requiem**

**Les Valses de LA**

**Rating: **This only is probably just a T.

**Disclaimer: **Chris Carter, my friend, I stole them from under your nose. Come catch me, we'll discuss plots for the up and coming (?) movie. I also do not own Francois Feldman's _Les Valses de Vienne – _but it is a truly wonderful, very romantic song.

**Spoilers: **Hollywood, A.D

**A/N: **Thanks again, to all the people who are taking the time to review this – and send me emails. I love you all so much for your kindness. Thanks to BonesDBChippie and Jaed, my best fic-buddies! You're so kind to me, following me across virtual worlds. And to all the X-Philers, to the ones who haven't forgotten the genius of the show, thanks to you too.

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"Still pissed?" she asked as their driver, Maurice, negotiated the limousine through the darkened streets of Los Angeles. Mulder leaned forward, staring into the golden depths of his champagne, and she knew he wasn't questioning why Skinner offered them his FBI credit card.

"We were portrayed as a joke, Scully," he said, draining the glass in one long gulp. She crossed her legs, luring his attention, momentarily, away from his own dark musing.

"It's never bothered you before," she said, her hip brushing his when he sat back in his seat, lacing their fingers together.

"We've worked so hard, lost so much, and I don't want to immortalised as some crack pot…" he sighed, "and I don't want _you_ being condemned as Mrs Spooky for your part in my crusade." Scully blinked slowly.

"It's my crusade, too," she whispered. "Besides, as I've already said, it's just a stupid movie. In a few years, maximum, people will be asking 'what's The Lazarus Bowl?' It doesn't matter, Mulder." The limousine turned, breezing along the street, through the balmy night. "What would you like to do with the credit card then?" Freeing himself of the bowtie he'd been hassled into wearing, Mulder tucking the silk into his pocket, lifting his shoulders.

"A Bureau credit card? We could get a private lap-dance. Skinner's accountant might get a kick out of it." Scully chuckled, swatting his arm.

"I don't imagine _Skinner_ would get a kick out of it, though. Dinner?" she asked and he shook his head.

"I'm not hungry. Too much popcorn, I think." She rolled her eyes, unsurprised that Mulder had given himself a belly ache. "I can't think of anything I want that costs money," he admitted. "Except maybe a Lamborghini, and again, I'm sure Skinner wouldn't be overly tickled by that kind of purchase." Scully pressed her lips together.

"Do you think his card has that kind of credit limit?" Mulder shook his head, reaching over to roll the window down, coaxing warm hair into their car. "Do you want to have a drink?" Gesturing to the empty champagne glass, Mulder vetoed her second idea. "You're not making this easy," she complained. "All that's left is dancing and making love." With their conversation kept consciously private from their chauffer, Mulder had no reason to fear that he might have heard – yet he did. Casting a cautious glance towards the darkened partition screen, their driver's eyes remained on the road. "Don't worry," Scully soothed, passing her hand along his thigh, "Skinner knows."

"How?" Mulder asked, turning towards her, their bodies angled.

"He knew from Virginia. It wasn't really a long shot," she reminded him, "he's known us for almost eight years, Mulder. You longer…" Shrugging her shoulders, she poured herself another glass of champagne, "he's fine with it. Don't let paranoia take over… please?" she pleaded, pleasantly surprised when he merely nodded, once. "Thank you." Reaching over, she pressed the intercom. "You can let us off here, we'd like to talk a bit." She took two quick sips of champagne, before slipping the glass into the holder at her side.

Maurice slowed the Lincoln to a breezing stop, hurrying to exit the vehicle and open the rear door for them. Mulder allowed Scully to get out first, pausing to admire the smooth length of her legs, as she turned, holding her hand to him. "Good evening sir, ma'am," the chauffeur said, tipping his cap. "Shall I wait?" Mulder passed him fifty dollars, shaking his head.

"We'll be alright," he said, "why don't you take the car back and call it a night? No one should be working on a night like this." Maurice smiled, tucking the notes into his pocket.

"Much obliged, sir," he said, "a lovely evening to you both."

Arm in arm, they strode along the shore-front, the warm breeze ruffling her hair, teasing her neck as she enjoyed his silent presence beside her. Flanked by palm trees, Washington, D.C. and their job seemed a million miles away. Even if they were being constantly observed, she lost interest in trying to worry. Only their footsteps, passing cars and the whispering leaves above her head, made any sound.

"It _is_ a lovely evening," Mulder said at last, unlacing their arms and tangling his fingers in hers, instead. "I suppose this whole… thing… with the movie is foolish," he conceded. Scully nodded, slipping a tress of hair behind her ear, descending the ten narrow steps to the golden beach, whose true beauty was hidden in darkness, lit only by the silver moonlight, that cast white beams of stark luminosity across the grains. Her shoes sank into the sand and she clicked her tongue.

Mulder held her as she removed the highest shoes she'd worn in months, and dropped them at the bottom of the steps. "I'll get them later," she decided aloud, pausing when the waves brushed against the surf, making her sigh. "Lets walk, Mulder," she said, when he'd removed his dress shoes and black socks. "With no food, we need to compensate with something, don't we? We're alive." Slipping his hands into his pockets, lifted his shoulders in a soft shrug.

"We'll be alive tomorrow, too, won't we?" he said and she chuckled.

"I certainly hope so," Scully replied, her eyes the colour of polished sapphires in the moonlight. "But then, who knows?" His own eyes twinkled with the kind of unspoken mischief she'd grown to adore – especially when it was directed at her.

"Who knows indeed," he agreed, bumping her shoulder, "we could be gone in an instant, if God dealt us such a fate." Pressing her lips together, she smothered a chuckle.

"I thought you didn't believe in God," she said, "or are we being figurative this evening?" He didn't respond, his features impassive as he turned his eyes to the rippling waters of the Pacific Ocean, placid and glassy. The view held his attention for a long moment, before he exhaled deeply, removing his hand from his pocket, slipping his arm around her shoulder, his fingertips brushing her clavicle in a spontaneous technique meant to arouse her.

"If you were alive for one night only, and you had to pick a single drink, which would it be?" he asked, their toes sinking into the sofa natural sand. Scully felt his fingertips on her throat, and hummed.

"A glass of vintage white wine," she mused, "Something special, for my last night of being undead." Mulder smiled at the stars overhead, his fingers slipping beneath the high neck of her chic black dress.

"And food? Your last meal?" She wondered at all the tasteless meals they'd shared together in cheap diners in rural towns, and decided that there were far more bad culinary experiences than good ones.

"I don't know about food," she admitted, "so much as company. I'd undoubtedly share my last meal with you. And I'd ask you all the things I've been too afraid to ask." He glanced sideways at her, his roaming hand skimming the top of her breast. "I think we'd eat Chinese takeaway on your sofa, with beers… or does that violate my last drink rule?" He shook his head.

"You can have your last drink after the meal. The wine's in the fridge, chilling." She chuckled, the sound lost in the whispering ocean.

"Okay," she agreed, "we'd drink some of that Shiner you have in your fridge, then. I like that." Removing his hand, he slid his fingers into her hair, curling the auburn tresses, pulling out the band that held the silken strands in place.

"What about your last dance?" She tilted her head, leaning into his touch, her need to jump to the next, final question, rising.

"Something ancient and classical," she whispered, turning to face him, leaning close enough that he could press his lips to the column of her throat, tasting just the essence of the perfume she'd squirted there earlier. "Like a waltz. I always liked watching couples dance the waltz." He hummed against her throat, dipping his tongue into her clavicle.

"Les valses de Vienne, Scully?" he asked, changing his accent, sounding deliciously foreign. "_Maintenant que deviennent, Que deviennent les valses de Vienne…_" he sang and she sighed against his lips, wrapping her arms around his neck, leaning into his kiss.

"I don't know what you're saying," she whispered, "but I'd like it very much if you'd continue…" He tasted her lips with his tongue, which apparently could not only tackle little seeds, but long foreign words, too.

"I would," he replied, "but that's all I can remember. In my defence," he continued, "the last time I heard this was in 1990, when I was working in Behavioural Sciences with Francois Molyneux." There were so many pieces of information that she didn't yet know about him, and so many she wanted to learn. "He played the song on repeat one afternoon while we did a profile together. In ten years, I think I'm doing well to remember even a few lines." She nodded, toying with the soft hairs at the base of his neck.

"Indeed you are," she said. "It sounds wonderful, nonetheless." Mulder tightened his arms around her waist, teasingly flicking the cool zipper of her dress and she inhaled salty air into her lungs, mixed with the scent of him. The familiarity of him eased her trembling nerves – the same nerves that never failed to be whipped into a frenzy by his proximity. He was her illness and her cure.

"So we've established your last drink, last meal and last dance… what," he asked, "pray tell, would be your last location for some love making?" Such a naughty question, she thought, spoken to her by the man she'd considered to be only her partner for the past seven years. The sound of his voice, filled with lusty need, sent a quiver down her spine.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," she replied. "If it weren't indecent to do it on a public beach, I'd have no hesitation. There's something classically romantic, tantalisingly naughty about it. He kissed the spot between her brows, barely brushing his lips across her skin.

"Psychologists believe there's an exhibitionist in all of us, Scully," he said, "even the reserved ones." She blinked at him through the dark, catching a glimpse of his perfect teeth, and she was pulled through time and space, transported to his apartment that rainy night when they'd reflected on age, death and expenditure. Her sexual appetite was far from appeased and she'd since acquired something of a taste for him. More than what Wayne Federman might call 'A residual flavour'.

"Do you think I'm reserved? Or more importantly, do you think I am an exhibitionist?" He laughed, the sound of his delight mixing with the temperate evening breeze, carried out to sea where she hoped it lasted forever, carried for all eternity in the wind. It was illogical and impossible, of course.

"Yes," he said, "Both." She scowled.

"Reserved? It shall be my quest to prove you wrong." He kissed her lips, coaxing her tongue from her mouth into his and she complied, losing herself in the feel of his hands roaming over her clothes, across her spine, touching her buttocks with the kind of exploration he normally reserved for bedroom activity only. He tasted of champagne and popcorn.

"I accept this challenge to be proved wrong, fair maiden," he said, "and I sincerely hope I am." She slipped her hand beneath his jacket, raking her nails over his back, watching his face contort with a mixture of pleasure and pain. "For now, Scully, lets dance… we've all night, after all…"

"One night in Hollywood?" she asked.

"Let's live it like it's our last." He said.

How true, she would reflect later, that statement was – for they would never return to Hollywood again.

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So we have 'all things', 'Brand X' and 'Hollywood, A.D.' (and they didn't even spend any money…), what about Fight Club? So we think some rough sex is in order? Let me know, folks!


	4. Fighting Chance

**The Six Degrees of Requiem**

**A Fighting Chance**

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**Rating: **M – for my fellow nymphos.

**Spoilers: **Fight Club

**A/N: **Promises to Jaed, that as soon as this project of mine is finished, I'll be right back over at Bones. In the mean time, I hope to continue to enjoy this piece of inspiration of mine.

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"I'm sorry," he sighed, pulling the blanket from her naked body, tracing his fingertips across the yellowing bruises that he'd inflicted upon her. Last week, they'd been vibrant and purple, and he hated that it was his hand that had marked her beautiful skin.

"For the thousandth time," she replied patiently, "it wasn't your fault. The arena was a bloodbath, Mulder, and everyone was beaten to a pulp. Besides," she lifted her arm, displaying the round bruise that spanned most of her left side, "this one was courtesy of a lady called Joanne Ivan. And this one," she lifted her leg, "was a man twice your size who's name I didn't catch because I was too busy elbowing him in the head." Mulder chuckled. "Sorry about your teeth…" He winced, having only had the corrective braces removed two days earlier.

"It's alright," he said. "I just hope we never get caught in such a violent vortex again… I'm not sure these aging bones could handle-" she pressed her mouth to his, smothering his piteous ramblings with a hard kiss. "Fine…" he said with a shrug, "brush off my concerns… it's…"

"Oh be quiet," she said, her hands snaking under the duvet to test his level of arousal. "It's Sunday, Mulder, and I'd like to…"

"I _know_ what you'd like to do. Point proven, by the way," she frowned, and his lips parted with a cheeky smile. "You've established yourself as having no reservations whatsoever." She giggled, recalling their late-night dance in LA, and her promise to erase his opinion of her as the straight-laced FBI agent. And she had. Outside of work, anyway. "Don't…" he hissed when her fingers curled around him. "You're a religious woman, Scully, isn't Sunday supposed to be a day of rest?" She shook her head, wavy strands of still un-brushed auburn hair tumbling about her cheeks. She looked ethereal - angelic, almost.

"Shush," she whispered, peppering kisses to his chest, along the hard line of his sternum, as far as the blanket would allow her to go, "I'm worshipping." Tracing his fingers over her spine, he sighed, wondering at how her skin felt like liquid satin, impossibly soft beneath his touch. When she slid up his body, tonguing his Adam's apple and left a moist trail over his jaw, he felt his body harden painfully in response to her. Her lips touched his, and she was like oxygen to his lungs.

I had been a hard week, he mused, sharing painkillers and being confined to the office. Made worse only by his desire for her, he sighed each time she reprimanded him for a lingering stare in the basement, because according to her, they never knew who was watching and secondly, work was after all, work.

He'd more than made up for their 'no sex at work' ban, but the long office hours seemed to drag by, especially with the v-necked blouses she kept wearing recently.

Her tongue slipped between his lips, stroking his inner mouth, waking, not only his own tongue, but all other sensitive parts of him, too. When her fingers danced over his torso, between the duvet again, his fingers coiled around her wrist, hard and tight. She whimpered against his lips, thrusting her hips against him, their bodies grinding with the kind of rampant need that he'd only ever experienced with her. He'd never wanted to be inside another woman as much as he did her.

"Be slow," he whispered, "I don't like when we have to rush…" There had been a few moments when their frenzied hormones demanded a quick fix. Once, she had _almost_ given in to him in the stationary closet. Almost. Languid sex, however, was reserved for the weekend.

"Me neither," she replied, gazing up at him when he rolled, looming over her with tight, firm arms. Glancing down, she saw his penis, hard against his abdomen, and she shivered with anticipation. Meeting his lustrous gaze, she ran her tongue across her dried lips, pulling a tight breath into her lungs. He was spectacular – she never got tired of his body. Or what effect it had on her. "Tell me a secret, Mulder," she said, passing her flat of her hand over his abdomen, relishing the feel of his hard, taut muscles beneath his rippling, warm skin.

"A secret?" He dropped his head, taking a semi-hard nipple into his mouth, coaxing the flesh into a tight point. "I like this…" he sighed, passing the flat of his tongue across the puckered skin, and she winced, grasping his hair into tight fists.

"That's not a secret," she hissed, "you've practically been attached there since…" He smiled against her breast, releasing her, leaving her skin shiny. Scully realised a sigh of what he could only interpret as relief. She had admitted once that his mouth had the ability to lure her dangerously close to orgasm every time. "A proper secret," she said, parting her legs, welcoming his hips to rest against her.

"I watched porn for years," he said, prompting her to roll her eyes.

"I know _that_ too," she said, drawing patterns on his shoulder with the tip of her nail.

"I wasn't finished," he reprimanded her with a hard, bruising kiss before clearing his throat. "I watched it quite a lot, actually. So I've _seen_ good sex before. But I never experienced it until you." She didn't gush, and he didn't expect her to, either. Their relationship was based on more than a gooey slush of romance. He knew she was touched by the way her absent roving stopped, her hand stilling over his shoulder, her eyes boring into his own, searching the depths of his soul.

When he shifted, the tip of his penis grazed her thigh and her body trembled. "And correct me if I am being egotistical, but I think the same can be said for you?" he asked, brushing his lips across her jaw, pulling her earlobe into his mouth and passing his tongue along the back. Her breathless sigh brushed his temple.

"That would probably be an… astute… assumption…" she replied, hooking her legs around his waist, positioning her entrance at his tip. One thrust, and he'd be inside her. Sweet anticipation made her body tingle, as he drew back, claiming her lips with his own. He tortured her for a long moment, barely grazing her sensitive skin with his penis.

"Probably?" he queried, easing himself inside her. She stiffened, never quite accustomed to his width. When her muscles relaxed around him, so did she.

"Fine," she sighed, "you're the best." He laughed, the sound gruff and raw. Drawing back, he pulled out of her almost the whole way, watching her face with the interest of a art aficionado, studying a painting in the Louvre. She held her breath, waiting on the delicious intrusion. His eyes swirled, a myriad of colours – all of which made her think of autumn. From warm, unfathomable brown, to twinkling gold. When he kissed her again, he dispelled a breath and she inhaled, drawing the essence of him into her lungs.

Tightening around him, she felt the steady staccato of his heartbeat against her breast, and felt an enormous amount of pride in knowing that it was her, _her_ body, that could evoke such powerful emotions in his. "Scully…" he whispered and he sounded as though he were having an epiphany. She have come to love this side of her partner, of their mutual love-making that was so powerful, it left the tips of her toes tingling.

Taking his face in her hands, she passed her thumbs over his lips, watching how his mouth opened, as if he wanted to speak, but the sensations of their love-making rendered him speechless. She didn't mind. There was nothing he needed to say and nothing she needed to hear. The shape of his lips, still moist from their kisses, would be recorded in her memory forever – in the event of something awful transpiring, she never wanted to forget how he felt, beneath her hands, around her body, inside of her.

He was still bruised from their encounter with the doppelgangers, and his bronzed skin looked battered, as did her own. Her lips had just barely healed, but her spine, arched now as she leaned into him, still ached. It didn't help, she supposed, that they were in bed together at every opportunity. But the feeling of him, aroused and filling her, joining them together in a sort of heavenly union, was too powerful to resist. It was as if they were supposed to be there – that all the trails in their lives was merely a test to see how strong they would be when forged together in a meaningful relationship. And they worked. They really worked.

Reaching between them, he stroked the sensitive bud between her thighs, listening as she spoke his name as if he were a God. Her God. Pressing the tip of his finger against her, she thrust her hips twice and they were one. The need and desire rose in her chest, and she whimpered, her orgasm rushing through her body like an out-of-control torrent, crashing through her womb, her legs, her belly, to her chest and down her arms. She convulsed, her fingers curling and her nails digging into his shoulder. He winced when she broke the skin, adding another injury to the already growing list of bumps and bruises, cuts and grazes.

He stiffened, his arms shaking from the effort of holding his body over her, and his eyes fell closed as a guttural moan rose in his chest, spilling forth in the form of her name, drawn out as though he were afraid to let go of it. She felt herself loosen, sagging to the bed with quiet exhaustion as he came within her, lost in the emotion of it.

Afraid of crushing her, he withdrew from her body and she whimpered at the loss of him, feeling somehow empty. He gathered her into his arms, smoothing her hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You smell like sex, Scully," he said, inhaling deeply. She hummed against him. She smelt like sex a lot these days. The air in her bedroom often carried a heady spiciness and she's been hesitant to wash her sheets, after catching the scent of him.

"So do you," she said, draping her arm across him, nestled into the nook of his arm. After a long moment, he spoke.

"Still happy, Scully?" he asked. It had becoming something of a ritual, to ask about happiness because, for the majority of their partnership, personal happiness was overshadowed by personal grief. Recently, there'd been a strange absence of sadness and he felt obliged to ask, to be reassured, that the woman he'd grown used to worshipping, was still happy.

"Do I look like an unhappy woman?" she asked – and with her flushed cheeks and full lips, he had to admit, she looked anything but unhappy. Yet, he always craved the verbal reassurance.

"Scully…" he pleaded, drawing his fingertip across her cheekbone. Her eyes fell closed, her lashes brushing his skin.

"I'm happier than I've ever been," she sighed at last. "And happier than I'm ever likely to be again." His arms folded around her again, holding their bodies together.

"Not if you're happier tomorrow," he said and she nodded.

"Do you think we'll be happy forever, Mulder?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"We're in with a fighting chance, I guess," he said, and it was probably the most optimistic thing she'd ever heard him say. It filled her with a kind of warmth that she wasn't used to, and she tucked her head under his chin.

"Happiness has to end sometime," she reminded him. "Unfortunately, it's inevitable." His chest rose in a heavy sigh, his hand passing over her forearm in a gentle caress and she was awed by how she felt when she was with him.

"I suppose you're right," he said at last, "but for now…" she nodded in understanding.

"For now, we are."

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I'm sad writing this, seriously… it just makes me remember how depressed I was at the injustice of Scully losing Mulder in Requiem. It shouldn't have happened, dammit! Anyway… on to Je Souhaite? One of my personal favourites…


	5. Insatiable

**Six Degrees of Requiem**

**Insatiable **

**Disclaimer**: It's been awhile since I updated. In that time, I haven't suddenly become the proud owner of The X-Files. For that reason, I'd like to mention that there is no infringement intended.

**Rating: **I reckon this would be classed as an M rated chapter.

**Spoilers: **This chapter is a post-ep for Je Souhaite but anything from 'all things' onward is possible.

**Author's Notes: **Don't forget to review! It's been such awhile since I updated this!

_We build our church above the street._

_We practice love between these sheets_

"You ready?" Jen asked.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

Was he? There were a million things in life that he wanted to wish for – if he had an infinite number of wishes. How nice it would have been, to have all of life's desires with a single request.

"Where will you go, after I make my finish wish? Will you just… disappear?" Jen rolled her head back, apparently bored with the conversation. He supposed she had been asked the same questions many times from the sixteenth century.

"I go wherever my rug is. Where is that, by the way? Is it some smelly evidence room? I've been there before and boy, it isn't fun." Mulder stood, pacing the floor of his office in ways he had done so many times before. Jen crossed her arms again, touching her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. "Any chance?" she asked, gesturing to the clock on the wall. Mulder stopped.

"Okay," he said at last.

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Mulder hated evidence rooms. It took forever to find what you were looking for and when you did, it was sealed in so much plastic that it took another twenty minutes just to get into it.

Today though, luck must have been on his side, for he found Jenn's rug without any difficulties, and it was wrapped in only one rug bag propped against the wall.

Unwrapping her, Jenn lay on the floor, her silvery eyes watching him with unmasked contempt. "You have had your three wishes," she snapped, getting to her feet. "You can't have anymore."

"Yes I can. I unwrapped you again. It's not m fault I'm just incredibly lucky, is it? Besides," he said softly, "I only want one more." Jenn strode towards the door, and he knew he would inevitably get what he wanted. If he had been wrong, Jenn would never have been allowed to leave her rug. "You'll like this one," he promised.

"I doubt it," she retorted and he sighed.

"I have to meet Scully in an hour… please…?" He hadn't touched her in over a week, and as the hours ticked by, his need for her deepened. Not even a genie would deter him tonight. "Okay, I'm going to make a wish now. I have plans. I wish that, subsequent to this wish being granted that you will never have to grant another wish again. That you will be released from the spell cast upon you and that you should become human. Twenty first century human, too, not some decrepit sixteenth century French woman." Jen stood still for a long time, her silver eyes glittering like liquid aluminium. Mulder held his breath, wondering if he forgot to mention something that would allow Jen to read between the lines. Somehow though, he imagined she'd be happy enough to take this wish at face value.

"Really?" she asked, her voice not altogether strong. "Four and a half centuries and no one has ever wished for this…" Mulder shrugged.

"I told you that you'd like it. Now would you just grant it so I can go home?" Nodding softly, with less determination than usual, Jen smiled.

"This is the last wish I will ever grant." After a long pause, she grinned. "Done." As if, in an instant, something changed around her, Jen looked altogether human. Her eyes shifted to an artic clear blue and when she pressed her fingertip to the corner of her eye the Mark of the Jinn was gone and her skin was smooth. "You freed me." Rubbing his hands together, Mulder grinned.

"Excellent! Now I can go." Striding across the room to the door, he paused. "Actually, I'd better escort you out of the building. Don't want you getting arrested on your first day of being human." Jen pulled her lip between her teeth, her cocky arrogance gone. Now, she was just a woman. "Follow me."

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All week, he had watched her and cursed his lack of professionalism. Each time she tapped her pencil against her lips, he imagined kissing her, imagined her kisses all over his body. It had been a living hell, not having her. Not showing her how much he loved her.

Now, as those lips drank from a bottle of beer, he was no longer interested in watching Caddyshack. Not that he ever really was. Watching movies, he knew, was their new code for sex. When he glanced sideways at her, studying her lovely features in profile, he thought about Jen and what she had said.

'I'd wish that I could live my life, moment by moment, enjoying it for what it is instead of worrying about what it isn't.'

Reaching out, he took Scully's hand, stroking her knuckles. His gesture drew her gaze away from the television towards him, her brow furrowed in an endearing frown. "I'm not going to worry about this ending," he said, drawing her hand to his lips, tracing an almost non-existent kiss along her silken skin. "Life is what it is, right?" Her eyebrows arched, her eyes widened, but she didn't reply. "I have missed you so much this week…" Mulder added, his fingers moving over her wrist.

"Yeah…" Scully whispered, turning her body towards him, encouraging his tentative touch. "Me too." Leaning into her, he slid his fingers into her hair, stroking her scalp, their mouths inches apart. He could smell the beer on her breath and it intoxicated him more than if he had been drinking it himself. Warm love radiated from her body in pulsing waves and when he cupped the back of her neck, urging her close, she came willingly, their lips meeting as if of their own accord.

How many times had they made love on this sofa? he wondered. How often had she cried out his name in the heat of pleasure?

Lying back against the weathered black leather, her hair a vibrant russet fan against the darkness, she was ethereal in her beauty and each time he looked into the liquid blue depths of her eyes, he remembered why he loved her. He saw his past, each moment of terror they had shared together and he saw themselves cemented together.

Her fingers touched his cheek, her lips moist and parted. Leaning down to kiss her, his heart surged when she arched her back and met him half way, apparently as greedy as he. For tonight, he knew, his apartment would be a place of divine worship and Dana Scully would be the goddess he intended to spend hours adoring.

Slipping his fingers beneath the white blouse she wore, he found her breast and urged her nipple into a turgid point. Her lips parted, welcoming his tongue and as he stroked the recesses of her mouth, she moaned deeply, her hips brushing his erection as he knelt over her. Scully parted her thighs, cradling him against her apex, her nails digging, almost painfully, into his neck.

His thumb drew erratic circles over her nipple as he pulled the lacy cup away from her breast, her flesh moulding into the curvature of his hand. She seemed to fit. In every way possible, Dana Scully fit. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. But it seemed almost trivial. Surely she knew. He touched her in ways he had never touched another woman. In ways he had never wanted to touch another.

Slipping her blouse over her head, he watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she watched him beneath lidded eyes. Her cheeks, dusky with raging desire, were soft when he pressed a soft kiss there. A delicate sigh escaped her lips and her palms moved over his back, his muscles seemingly manipulated by her touch.

"Tell me what you wished for," she breathed in his ear, a tremble coursing through his body when she did.

"You'll find out," he promised, hoping that she really would. For if Jen had not granted his third wish, he would have no way of rectifying the hurt it would cause – especially since Scully was so sceptical.

_There is a racing inside my heart_

_And I am barely touching you…_

Willing away the demons of his own doubt, he dropped his mouth to hers again, and any lingering questions she might have had, were erased with the intensity of his kiss. He knew it was his ultimate weapon, and tonight, he intended to use it to his full advantage. He wanted her to forget that she'd ever felt hurt before.

His fingers slid beneath the waist of her pants, finding her moist core quickly – he was an expert at touching her now. She whispered his name, and he smiled against her lips, his thumb stroking her, urging her desire into a tight, coiling spring. Her arousal was his, and as his circles intensified, he wanted nothing more than to be inside her. Where he'd wanted to be all week. Work was their lent, so to speak, and when their professional lives took precedence, sex was off the menu.

Touching the tip of his tongue to her pulse, he felt her inhale, a rattling breath that he'd come to associate with her excitement. Her hands helped him to undress, her dexterous little doctor fingers unzipping his jeans in record time. With each breath she took, her breasts rose and touched his chest, her little nipples hard. Remembering how they tasted to his tongue, he pressed his lips together around the bud, the tip of his tongue touching her pebbled nipple, her puckered flesh easily manipulated by him.

Naked now, he spread her legs further, nudging her entrance with the tip of his penis.

_We move together up and down_

_We levitate, our bodies soar_

_Our feet don't even touch the floor_

She met him, stroke for stroke, her lips murmuring her approval, breathless and coarse; the sounds she made brought his arousal to a dizzying height. He felt her cool hands move over his back, stroking the muscles of his body. He had never wanted anyone in his life as much as he wanted her. Nor had he ever loved so much.

Being inside her wasn't just sex. It could not ever be. She had been his sanity, the voice of reason, friend and kindness for so many years. Looking into the maelstrom of blue that were her eyes, he saw a reflection of his own feelings and it was this, not her naked body that brought him to climax. Around his penis, she shuddered, her walls turning to liquid molten.

Sated and tired, he fell over her, breathless. Her fingers laced through the damp strands of his dark hair, shorter now than in earlier years. His breath fanned over the swell of her breast, tightening her nipple again. He could feel her breath on his forehead and the sensation was oddly arousing, even though he could not possibly had needed sex again. Despite this, his penis stirred against her thigh and he felt, rather than saw, a smile grace her lovely lips.

"Scully I-" he had never voiced it. Except once, in a drug-induced haze.

"Shush," she whispered back, her fingers stilling momentarily in his hair. "I know." Closing his eyes, listening to heart beat, he suspected that she did know. That she had always known. Silent understanding was the epitome of their relationship – a bond that was as unique as it was bizarre. Pressing a soft kiss to the top of her breast, he held her closer. Everything was perfect.

_There are no words,_

_There's only truth…_

This show is the love of my life.


	6. Everything Changes

**Six Degrees of Requiem**

**Everything Changes**

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. I've lost hope.

**Rating: **T maybe M.

**Spoilers: **This is the chapter that corresponds with Requiem. However, there are spoilers all over the place. I just can't help myself.

**Author's Note: **I have enjoyed writing this story more than I can ever say. The X-Files was my obsession and in so many ways it still is. I'd like to dedicate this last chapter to the show, and to my best friend, Sharon who, if she ever reads this, will understand exactly why I picked the chapter title that I did.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She had held the baby with so much tenderness that, had he believed in God, he would have cursed the man for making her life so damn miserable. In that moment, if he had the power to turn back time, he would have ensured she was never assigned to him. Perhaps she would have led a normal life. Maybe she would have had a husband, some kids, and a dog. A white picket fence, who knew?

He knew for sure, if Scully could read his mind, she'd have castrated him for his thoughts. She did not want protected. She had made her choices knowing that they were dangerous. Scully chose love and friendship over comfort.

Stroking her hair, he listened to her breathing and his touch roused her from her fitful sleep. Her blue eyes fluttered around the car, settling on his face after a moment. He witnessed the anxiety melt from her body and she smiled. "I'm sorry," she apologised, straightening in her seat. "I've just been so damn tired lately." Pinching the top of her nose, she widened her eyes. "And this headache, I just can't shift it." He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. It was a pleasure he shouldn't have allowed himself. Lover's touches were strictly off limits out on the field.

"I'm going to check out some photographs in my room," he told her, gesturing to his cabin. The Oregon motel would have been quaint, had it not been for the bizarre goings on that always seemed centred around the town. "Get into bed and rest. Don't get sick," he warned her, pressing his palm to her forehead. Her skin was hot to touch, but hardly feverish. "Do you think this car is bugged?" he asked and her brow furrowed.

"I doubt it," she replied, a hint of mirth evident in her tone.

"If we were anywhere else right now, Scully, I'd want to kiss you," she opened her mouth to protest and he cupped his palm over her lips. "However bad that is for me to say, you're more important to me than any of this. You must know that…" He could only see her eyes now, but through her irises he saw everything. She wasn't mad at him.

Her fingers curled around his wrist, pulling his hand from her mouth. "I do," she replied. "But you have to stop talking like you're going to lose me, Mulder. We cannot continue like this." He dropped his eyes to his lip, fiddling with the car keys.

"We've been through so much," he whispered at last. "It's difficult not to imagine the worst. Being back here, in this place, it's like going back in time. It's like… your abduction never happened, your cancer…" a sideways glance at her revealed that his words had affected her. She kept her eyes downcast, as though mulling over what he had said. Ever the voice of reason, however, she glanced up, forcing a smile to her lovely lips.

"All that _has _happened," she said. "And it cannot be reversed. Yesterday is gone and we can't get it back. Tomorrow we will be looking back on today and I'd rather not reflect on my life and know I was always worried about the worst. I'm here now. You are here now." She leaned across the car, closing the gap of their bodies. It was the closest she had ever gotten on an assignment. "_We_ are here now, Mulder. Do you understand?" He took her hand, revelling in the satin feel of her skin.

"I'm trying," he promised. "I've lost so many things in my life, Scully. I _can't _lose you."

He replayed these words over and over in his mind as he got undressed, showered and changed. Losing Scully, especially now, was the one thing that would bring his world to a shuddering halt. He was yin and she was yang and there was simply no other way to explain it. He was not being overly romantic, or poetic. The truth could not be denied. Without her, he was not whole.

He wasn't fully concentrating on the photos when she knocked his door. Her dizziness, regardless of how much she wanted to underplay it, was serious. She wouldn't have come to him, otherwise. Her skin felt cool now, her eyes wide with unspoken fear. Their earlier conversation came blaring back, and his usual fears resurfaced.

Covering her with the blanket, he held her, almost begging her to quit. After awhile, she fell into a reflective silence and he suspected that she might finally agree. She would leave the X-Files, become an ordinary field agent. She held his hand and he fell asleep behind her, vaguely aware of her shampoo and how wonderful she smelt. She was his, now, and protest as she might, he was going to protect her.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Scully woke first, wrapped in his embrace, she felt safe. Her dizzy spell had passed and she felt better now than she had in days. Looking in the mirror, her skin was dewy and her eyes bright. Looking down at herself, she realised that during the night, Mulder must have woken and undressed them both, for she wore only her underwear.

Rummaging on the floor for her clothes, she was surprised to find that Mulder had neatly folded her pants and blouse and draped them over the chair. Glancing at his still-sleeping form, she thought it might have been him, not her, who was sick. Smiling fondly, she watched his eyes flicker beneath his eyelids. He would wake soon, and whatever he dreamt of would be a memory.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Scully was struck by how much she felt for him. However foolish his choices sometimes were, he loved her more than she could ever wish to be. Even in his sleep, his hands searched the sheets for her, and his lovely features twisted with worry when he didn't encounter her body. Inhaling sharply, his eyes opened, wide with panic.

"Hey," she soothed, kneeling over him, clothes in hand. His fingers touched her waist, encouraging her not to leave. It was already seven thirty, and their day loomed ahead. With much to do, there was no time for Mulder's arousal techniques – which were strictly forbidden. Yet she found herself melting into his embrace, her thigh covering his as he leant into her.

"This sucks," Mulder sighed, his breath hot against her ear.

"What does?" Scully asked, turning in his arms. Beneath the covers, she felt his arousal, hard against her inner thigh.

"Not being allowed to touch you." A consist source of annoyance between them, their mutual rule that sex on assignment was forbidden was sometimes the worst agreement they'd ever come to. "Seeing you like this…" he stroked her rosy cheek, watching her lashes flutter.

"You undressed me," she reminded him, "so it's your own fault." His lips brushed her bare shoulder and curved into a smile. They were on a downward spiral into dangerous territory, yet neither of them seemed particularly wilful, today. "What if someone sees us?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper. She knew the drapes were drawn and if someone could see them now, they would see them at home, too. Then she realised she was trying to rationalise their actions.

"Let them," Mulder whispered, his fingers caressing her breast. "I don't care." His tone told her he didn't. His body told her the same.

His lips stroked her jaw and her lips parted, eagerly awaiting the moment in which he would kiss her, and she would feel all her inhibitions come crashing down. It was inevitably the same as always. Sexually, Mulder could turn her into another woman. She was wild, in his arms. Stoic and sensible when she was not. Now that he was touching her, she was at the point of no return. Until he was inside her, she would not see reason.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties, drawing the silk and lace over her thighs and ankles. She was already wet, the effect of his caresses, and the prospect of him invading her body. Medically, she knew this was simply her body's way of preparing her for penetration, as a woman, she knew it was what he did to her.

His lips found hers, his touch tentative and hesitant at first, as though he wasn't certain he had permission. When her fingers found his penis, curling around his width, he took her action as acceptance that they were past the point of return. His mouth pressed hard against hers, her thumb stroking the tip of his penis, luring a pearly drop of arousal from within his body. She was always amazed at how her touch affected him.

As her heart raced, her head felt light again but she remained silent, ignoring the prickle of worry that persisted – the part of her mind that told her something _was_ physically wrong with her. To tell herself that she was getting the flu was just foolish and she wondered if her cancer was coming back. Pushing the thought aside, she stroked his flesh and listened to his murmurs of approval instead.

His fingers laced within her hair and his touch made her breathless with eager anticipation. Closing her eyes, she tried to lose herself in the sensations her body experienced, telling herself that it was useless to worry about illness when she could throw herself into the euphoria she knew would come with his ministrations.

"Whatever is making you frown," he whispered against her lips, "stop." Her eyes flew open, but his were closed, and she wondered how he had known. She suspected it was a lot to do with their mutual abilities to read one and other. As if to soothe away the worries in her mind, he took her face in his hands, his thumbs drawing circles on her cheekbones, and after a long moment, he opened his eyes. "I have to tell you, Scully," he sighed, leaning over her now. She released his penis, her lips parting as she opened her mouth to protest. Telling her, she thought, would trivialise it. "I am so in love with you," he whispered, "and you might think it is a cliché to say it, but I can feel the winds of change here, Scully, and I don't want either of us to regret not saying it."

However great it was having sex with him, this time her pleasure was tarnished by the force of his words. In the recesses of her mind, she wanted to return the sentiment, yet she was almost afraid because then it he would have to admit that something was changing. That her sudden sickness was related to the events occurring around them. Seven years ago, they had been in this same place, when they had only just met.

So much had changed. Yet so much was still the same.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-..-.-

Krycek was promising the forbidden fruit, a space ship, and she knew Mulder was going to go. She knew, looking at him across the conference table, that his need to find the truth had won over. After fainting in the woods, he probably reasoned that he was doing it all for her.

Shaking her head, Scully strode from Skinner's office, into the hallway, breathless and dizzy. It took only a few moments before he was behind her, telling her that she wasn't going. Indignant that he was trying to protect her, to shut her out, she dropped her hands to her hips. Through his talk about abductees and begging her to forget about it, she could only think of how annoyed she was that he thought her to be weak. Then his tone changed, and he wasn't her protector. He was the man who loved her more than life.

"I'm not going to risk… losing you…" he whispered, keeping his voice low enough that the people in the office, those they trusted and those they did not, would not hear him. Falling into his arms, not caring any longer about the risks, she sensed the change in their relationship at once. Things would never be the same. For the first time, he was shutting her out. When they had taken the leap from partnership to lovers, an irreversible shift had taken place and she was more important to him that his work. More important to him than his own life.

"I won't let you go alone," she replied at last. "Skinner can go with you. There's no one we can trust more." Mulder nodded, turning back towards the office. Her fingers curled around his wrist, and his eyes widened when he turned back to her. "Mulder," she sighed, seeking warmth in his touch. Since they'd become lovers, they'd each dreaded the moment in which the dream, their dream, would end. She couldn't help but imagine that this was it. "I love you, too." His features softened, his hand reaching out to tilt her chin towards him.

"How about you tell me that again, when I get back? And you can tell me if my third wish came true." She smiled weakly, a frown furrowing her brow.

"Sure," she promised, letting him go."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She knew he was gone. Skinner didn't need to tell her, the look on his face, the silent devastation, and she knew she had lost him. Swallowing, she shifted in her hospital bed, her thoughts spinning crazily in her mind. Why now?

"I already heard," she whispered when Skinner tried to speak.

"I lost him," his voice broke and it was the first time she'd ever seen her boss cry. Knowing how much he had let her down, he was broken by the weight of his failure. "I don't know what else I can say. I lost him. I'll be asked… what I saw… and what I saw I can't deny. I won't." Later she would learn the details of exactly what Skinner saw that night, when Mulder walked into the light and was taken from her. For now, the vague information she had been fed was enough to break her heart.

"We will find him," she insisted, her voice watery to her own ears. "I have to." Aside from herself and her doctors, no one knew just how much she had to get him back.

Skinner turned to leave, his shoulders heavy with anxiousness. "Sir," she spoke, reaching out for comfort, understanding. "There's something that I need to tell you. Something that I need for you to keep to yourself." As he returned to her bedside, she saw the questions in his eyes, and swallowed hard, her own joy shattered by her broken heart. "I'm having a hard time explaining it. Or believing it but…" her eyes met his, "I'm pregnant."

She thought it was impossible for him to look any more broken, but at these words, his whole body seemed to shudder. "Mulder's?" he asked, and her trembling lips were all the clarification he needed. "Dana," he whispered, sinking to the chair behind him, "I'm so sorry." She straightened in the bed.

"You did everything possible," she told him. "I know you did." Her boss kept his eye averted, unable to look at the woman Mulder had gotten pregnant, the woman who loved him enough to sacrifice a normal life. "It's alright," she whispered, knowing that the truth of what had happened had not yet registered in her mind. "Mulder will understand."

"Mulder might be dead!" Skinner snapped, raising his voice. Her look was stricken, her eyes wide. "Because of me."

"He's not," she insisted. "He cannot be." Perhaps she was being irrational. Foolish, even, but she could not accept that she would never hold him again. "I refuse to accept that." Skinner dropped his head into his hands, his voice muffled.

"You have to, Scully," he insisted. She shook her head.

"No. No I won't."

He stood, leaving her alone, his eyes downcast with shame and sadness. She listened to the door close and felt herself break. A sob welled in her chest and she released it, pressing her fingers to her lips. How cruel was life, that she could finally be pregnant, after all the heartache, and Mulder was gone.

Sobbing until she was too tired to move, Scully pressed her cheek to the pillow, touching her smooth flat stomach with her palm. She remembered LA, dancing on the sand, and thinking that Mulder's voice was carried out to sea.

Falling into a sleep that was fuelled by exhaustion rather than comfort, her last waking thought was that she hoped, one day, his voice would be carried in the wind, back to her again.

END

Thanks for reading everyone. I hope I was able to accurately portray the extraordinary relationship of Mulder and Scully to a certain degree. Review, please!


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